My Life and Other Stuff That Went Wrong Read Online Free Page B

off the snow. So, next day, she buys a whole bunch of stuff from the op-shop where she helps out on Tuesdays, including makeshift nostril protectors and thermal underwear (which she insists on showing me).

    The night before the Battle of Cemetery Hill, this is the conversation at dinner:
    â€˜How’s Nan?’ Mum asks.
    â€˜Good,’ I say.
    â€˜Is she still going to climb Mt Everest?’
    â€˜This is delicious,’ I say, scooping up a spoonful of cauliflower in ham sauce. ‘Was this from a recipe or …’
    â€˜Tom?’
    â€˜Nah, she’s given up,’ I say.
    â€˜Why are you still going over to her place so early?’
    â€˜Just to … help her out. With jobs and stuff.’
    Mum looks me in the eye. ‘Are you sure?’
    â€˜Yeah. As if she’s going to climb Mt Everest. She’s not crazy!’
    But Mum knows that this is not entirely true.

    Oof. Oof. Oof.
    That’s what I hear as we make our way through the early-morning dark towards the starting line. Nan click-clacks along next to me. It’s a warm morning and I’m in thongs and shorts, but Nan is dressed head to toe in her op-shop outfit – sheepskin boots, ski goggles, knitted gloves, a ski jacket three sizes too big, a deer-hunting cap with woollen earflaps, and her pearl necklace and handbag. The part of her face not hidden by the goggles glows with sweat.
    Oof. Oof.
    We turn the final corner and, up ahead, in a pool of street lamplight, I see Jack sitting on the bonnet of his nan’s motorised granny cart. He is holding a punching bag and Sue is smacking it with her bare knuckles like she’s got something to prove.
    When we reach the starting line I say, ‘Racing in a motorised cart is cheating.’
    Jack turns to Nan. ‘Hey there, little old lady.’
    Sue punches the bag one last time. Jack falls off the front of the cart and lands on his head.
    â€˜Ow.’
    Sue’s angry-looking black-and-white dog snarls at us from the back of the cart. It has a container hanging off its collar, like the small wooden keg you might see around a St Bernard’s neck.
    â€˜All right,’ Sue grunts, throwing a small Australian flag down to me. ‘First one to plant their flag between the boneyard gates wins.And no foul play this time, you got it? On your marks …’ She turns the key, revs the accelerator. ‘Get set …’
    â€˜Go!’ Nan calls, taking off into the dark, slightly faster than a snail.
    â€˜Get outta my way, numbskull!’ Sue screams at Jack, who is still lying in front of the cart, rubbing his head. Sue jerks forward, rolling over his toe, squishing it beneath a monster-truck wheel.
    â€˜Owww!’ Jack clutches his foot.
    I run a few steps to keep up with Nan – she’s really moving.
    Beeep! Sue slams her hand on the horn. ‘Outta my way!’ she calls as her cart moves up next to us, headlamps lighting the road ahead. ‘You haven’t got a hope. And you look ridiculous in that outfit, by the way.’
    Sue veers sharply to the left, trying to steer us off the road and into a ditch.
    Nan adjusts her ski goggles but doesn’t saya thing. She focuses on the road ahead.
    â€˜My dad was a world-class mountain climber!’ Sue shouts over the annoying hum-buzz of the cart engine.
    â€˜What?’ Nan lifts one earflap on her deer-hunting cap.
    â€˜I said my dad was –’
    â€˜I don’t care if your dad was Sir Edmund Hillary,’ Nan says. ‘I can see you’re a whopping great woolly mammoth riding a motorised buggy. How are you going to get that thing up Everest?’

    Sue sneers. ‘It’s the Sherpa 5000, top of the line. It’s the Tenzing Norgay of granny carts.’ She floors the accelerator, taking the lead. She veers in front of us and drops something off the back of her cart. I hear the tinkling of metal on tar and, in the red glow of her tail-lights, I